Paintings of Terror - Chapter 207: Ke Xun’s Heart-Wrenching Pain

We’ve come to a world where the roles of men and women have been reversed. So, of course, women will rush to us. “You don’t have to bring water.” “Oh, okay…” …I guess I’ll just have to live the way I always have.

This novel is also known as I Can Bring In-game Items Out

I am an ordinary person, just a supernatural being who has awakened my personal space.

When the second world of the overwhelming holographic game hits, in the game, the protagonist took out the mineral water in his personal space and took a sip before covering himself up.

This, this seems to be in the game?

Since then, items in the game can be brought out, and items outside can be brought in, and the life of the protagonist has undergone earth-shaking changes.

Flying into the sky and fleeing the earth, what is it like to cast beans into soldiers, holding a Pangu ax and stepping on the Zhuxian sword is nothing but ordinary.

- Description from novelbuddy

They say the greatest blessing is marrying the idol you always dreamed of.

But Qiao Lian knows that reality is different…

The Internet claims that Best Actor Shen Liangchuan is a male god who is unaffected by any sexual drive, but Qiao Lian vehemently disagrees. It’s a lie!

After finally carrying out the contract, Qiao Lian burst out, “I want a divorce! I don’t want such a life!”

- Description from Novelupdates

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”